(no subject)
One day at the end of summer, Emmy Hogan gets a letter, and it makes her cry. But only a little bit, and for a little while.
At the end of summer, Ansley Hooper is packing for Columbia, when she feels a tug. The voice she hears is in her mind but not from it. Like tuning into a radio.
She's going... going... gone.
Case closed, call it a day, zip up your fly; that one's OUTTA here.
She will hear the Voice of the Bear only once more in her life. Now she hugs Paddington for a moment before she lays him away in a box, and she smiles for a moment, misty, at a past that's slipping away.
Ben is on a plane to Chicago, thinking about a fiery crash; Dee is in a hostel in Amsterdam, snug against an Isreali backpacker when she lifts her head for a moment and thinks of her home, but she'd never admit it. Shannon, an intern at the New York Times, witness to what may be the last days of the Old Grey Lady (but o, they've said that before) is having a hell of a day, mixing up coffee orders and scattering papers. Riley Jones is laughing with her friends, and for a moment they all get quiet, the way people do, at twenty til or twenty past.
(It's not twenty. It's nineteen. It's always nineteen.)
Gretchen Park and the girls of B Suite; Lieutenant Jerry Grey (retired); Ms. Bing and the GSA. For a moment, they all remember being a part of something. Something that's passing away. Fading away.
They're (mostly) young, and broken hearts mend. It's not the end of the world.
***
"You're listening to WKIT, Bangor's only classic rock station," the DJ declares. "That was, of course, the Fab Four and one of their many, many hits from the summer of 1967, off the Sergeant Pepper's album..."
Susannah is putting things away; the linens and the dishes; pulling dust covers over the larger furniture. No reason to leave it for the caretaker. Her back twinges a little; so what. She's got the sunshine through those big picture windows, the reason she bought this house; she's got her radio, playing the music of her youth. She's got everything.
(she's leaving home)
***
Friday morning and she's miles away; headed for the hole in the world. The great Maine Stonehenge. The wall is almost finished.
In a shining red helmet with wings stenciled on the side and with an extra luggage rack on the back of the Honda, Rosalyn Callahan, known in some parts as Rose Alice Toren, is leaving home. She's got her computer, and her phone and her mother's key in Roland Deschain's jacket; her mother's gun as well, and the knife that Helen and Ansley gave her. She's got her memories and the things she regrets, and all the things she couldn't leave behind.
It's less than she expected. She's traveling light.
She's young, and she's still pretty sure she can do anything, if she sets her mind to it. That she'll never be beaten, she'll never have to compromise or cut a deal. She's a little too big for her britches, and that's all right, because the word on the street is there's one bad lieutenant out there; one bad patrolboy waiting to cut us down to size.
What the man said is that if you don't start off too big for your britches, there might be nothing left when the cutting is done but the tops of your shoes.
***
"We got one more golden oldie for you, cats and kittens; one more platter that matters from a golden age, and then I've gotta sign off. Don't worry, though, Joe'll be in at 5 to bring you all back home.
I can't say I wouldn't do it without you guys, I can't say that, 'cause I own the station and damn I love my job.
But it's always better with you, Constant Listeners."
***
Across the universe and beyond; under strange suns or between them, along the bounds and in the black. Say goodnight. Slayers and superheroes and (not so) harmless sociopaths, and all the girls so far from a home that doesn't quite fit anymore, like a secondhand coat...
Here she goes. One of yours. One like you. With everything left to learn, and everything left to lose.
***
Susannah-mio, lonely lady at the window, crying for what's over. Endings have always been kind to her; kinder than they might have been, anyway. Eddie will bring her a cold drink in a minute, and when he sees she's been crying, they'll go out on the porch, and they'll look out over the fields through a haze of green and gold, and they'll wave goodbye together. They'll knit back together, the two of them and an old dog, and everything will be fine.
In a minute. In a minute.
She's coming back, Susannah reminds herself. She's coming back. Via Chicago and Louisville and Jackson Hole and Odetta, Arkansas. Via Pittsburgh, Parkersburg, Gravellburg, Colorado, Ellensburg, Rexburg, Vicksburg, Eldorado, Larrimore, Atmore, Haverstraw, and Chattanika.
She's got a long way to go, and a long way to come back, but it was her promise; a gunslinger's promise. Her heart is breaking, with grief and with pride, but I am here to tell you folks that broken hearts mend, given world enough and time.
And that, too, is the power and the promise of the White.
(I'm like a soldier getting over the war)
***
She takes off down the highway, moving up the gears, heading for high, looking for the slipslide, the tell-tale bound between the worlds, and for a moment the bike shakes in the transition; for a moment it shakes like a hurricane. Like a holy roller with its soul at stake, the Honda fights the slipstream and it tries to throw her.
She doesn't let it; and she rips out into this world, the Keystone world, at seventy miles an hour in the blind spot of a panel truck and nearly gives the driver a heart attack. It would give her mother a heart attack to see it, but she never flinches, never blinks, just shifts the gears and shoots past him with a wild war-whoop, heading out of the Androscoggin valley and fucking out of sight.
Like a bat out of hell; like a rolling stone.
***
Always better with you.
And now: the Late Greats, and 'Turpentine.'
Goodnight everybody.
***
Boston MA
August 5th 2009
At the end of summer, Ansley Hooper is packing for Columbia, when she feels a tug. The voice she hears is in her mind but not from it. Like tuning into a radio.
She's going... going... gone.
Case closed, call it a day, zip up your fly; that one's OUTTA here.
She will hear the Voice of the Bear only once more in her life. Now she hugs Paddington for a moment before she lays him away in a box, and she smiles for a moment, misty, at a past that's slipping away.
Ben is on a plane to Chicago, thinking about a fiery crash; Dee is in a hostel in Amsterdam, snug against an Isreali backpacker when she lifts her head for a moment and thinks of her home, but she'd never admit it. Shannon, an intern at the New York Times, witness to what may be the last days of the Old Grey Lady (but o, they've said that before) is having a hell of a day, mixing up coffee orders and scattering papers. Riley Jones is laughing with her friends, and for a moment they all get quiet, the way people do, at twenty til or twenty past.
(It's not twenty. It's nineteen. It's always nineteen.)
Gretchen Park and the girls of B Suite; Lieutenant Jerry Grey (retired); Ms. Bing and the GSA. For a moment, they all remember being a part of something. Something that's passing away. Fading away.
They're (mostly) young, and broken hearts mend. It's not the end of the world.
***
"You're listening to WKIT, Bangor's only classic rock station," the DJ declares. "That was, of course, the Fab Four and one of their many, many hits from the summer of 1967, off the Sergeant Pepper's album..."
Susannah is putting things away; the linens and the dishes; pulling dust covers over the larger furniture. No reason to leave it for the caretaker. Her back twinges a little; so what. She's got the sunshine through those big picture windows, the reason she bought this house; she's got her radio, playing the music of her youth. She's got everything.
(she's leaving home)
***
Friday morning and she's miles away; headed for the hole in the world. The great Maine Stonehenge. The wall is almost finished.
In a shining red helmet with wings stenciled on the side and with an extra luggage rack on the back of the Honda, Rosalyn Callahan, known in some parts as Rose Alice Toren, is leaving home. She's got her computer, and her phone and her mother's key in Roland Deschain's jacket; her mother's gun as well, and the knife that Helen and Ansley gave her. She's got her memories and the things she regrets, and all the things she couldn't leave behind.
It's less than she expected. She's traveling light.
She's young, and she's still pretty sure she can do anything, if she sets her mind to it. That she'll never be beaten, she'll never have to compromise or cut a deal. She's a little too big for her britches, and that's all right, because the word on the street is there's one bad lieutenant out there; one bad patrolboy waiting to cut us down to size.
What the man said is that if you don't start off too big for your britches, there might be nothing left when the cutting is done but the tops of your shoes.
***
"We got one more golden oldie for you, cats and kittens; one more platter that matters from a golden age, and then I've gotta sign off. Don't worry, though, Joe'll be in at 5 to bring you all back home.
I can't say I wouldn't do it without you guys, I can't say that, 'cause I own the station and damn I love my job.
But it's always better with you, Constant Listeners."
***
Across the universe and beyond; under strange suns or between them, along the bounds and in the black. Say goodnight. Slayers and superheroes and (not so) harmless sociopaths, and all the girls so far from a home that doesn't quite fit anymore, like a secondhand coat...
Here she goes. One of yours. One like you. With everything left to learn, and everything left to lose.
***
Susannah-mio, lonely lady at the window, crying for what's over. Endings have always been kind to her; kinder than they might have been, anyway. Eddie will bring her a cold drink in a minute, and when he sees she's been crying, they'll go out on the porch, and they'll look out over the fields through a haze of green and gold, and they'll wave goodbye together. They'll knit back together, the two of them and an old dog, and everything will be fine.
In a minute. In a minute.
She's coming back, Susannah reminds herself. She's coming back. Via Chicago and Louisville and Jackson Hole and Odetta, Arkansas. Via Pittsburgh, Parkersburg, Gravellburg, Colorado, Ellensburg, Rexburg, Vicksburg, Eldorado, Larrimore, Atmore, Haverstraw, and Chattanika.
She's got a long way to go, and a long way to come back, but it was her promise; a gunslinger's promise. Her heart is breaking, with grief and with pride, but I am here to tell you folks that broken hearts mend, given world enough and time.
And that, too, is the power and the promise of the White.
(I'm like a soldier getting over the war)
***
She takes off down the highway, moving up the gears, heading for high, looking for the slipslide, the tell-tale bound between the worlds, and for a moment the bike shakes in the transition; for a moment it shakes like a hurricane. Like a holy roller with its soul at stake, the Honda fights the slipstream and it tries to throw her.
She doesn't let it; and she rips out into this world, the Keystone world, at seventy miles an hour in the blind spot of a panel truck and nearly gives the driver a heart attack. It would give her mother a heart attack to see it, but she never flinches, never blinks, just shifts the gears and shoots past him with a wild war-whoop, heading out of the Androscoggin valley and fucking out of sight.
Like a bat out of hell; like a rolling stone.
***
Always better with you.
And now: the Late Greats, and 'Turpentine.'
Goodnight everybody.
***
Boston MA
August 5th 2009